Hana Kurusu sat quietly on the edge of the windowsill, legs tucked beneath her as golden rays of late afternoon sunlight streamed through the glass, casting long lines of warmth across her back.

The gentle breeze filtering in carried the scent of the gardens below, mingling with the faint rustle of her wings—wings she rarely let anyone get close to.

Not because she was overly sensitive, but because they were hers, sacred in their purpose, gifted through divinity and burdened by everything she carried from her past.

But she let you touch them.

The room was quiet, the only sounds were your steady breath and the subtle sound of bristles brushing against feathers.

Your fingers worked carefully, methodically. You started from the top where the feathers were sleek and soft, near her shoulders, and slowly worked your way downward in careful, measured strokes.

Each brush smoothed out a line of gold-tinged white, coaxing it back into perfect order. She twitched now and then—some of the spots were sensitive—but she didn’t pull away.

In fact, she leaned forward slightly, silently encouraging you.

The wings were heavier than they looked, long and powerful, but right now they seemed at peace. Like her.

You reached for a particularly tangled feather, twisting just a bit at the edge where two smaller ones had curled around it, likely from her last mission.

A quiet wince escaped her—not from pain, but from embarrassment. She hated when they got like this. Sloppy. Undignified.

She started to murmur something under her breath, perhaps an apology or some half-formed complaint, but she bit it back.

The way you handled them—gentle, patient, focused—she didn’t want to ruin it with words. So she sat still, gripping the edge of the window with delicate fingers as you continued your work.

Sometimes, she’d sneak a glance over her shoulder. Not directly at you, but close.

Eyes soft, a quiet kind of gratitude hiding behind the flicker of lashes and the faint pink that dusted her cheeks.

Her wings had always been a part of her, a gift and a curse. People stared, called her angel, idolized her, feared her—no one really saw her.

But here, in this room, under your hands, they were just feathers. And she was just a girl sitting still, trusting someone else to hold a part of her that most never got close to.

A gust of wind passed, fluttering the curtain and catching a few loose strands of her hair.

You tucked them gently behind her ear before continuing, and she held her breath, unsure whether it was from the tenderness of the gesture or the calm it brought.

When you finally set the brush down, satisfied, her wings gave a soft stretch—graceful and expansive, filling the space behind her like a blooming halo of light.

She folded them again, carefully, comfortably. The ache in her back was gone now. The tension she’d carried for days, even weeks—it had faded with every sweep of your hand.

She didn’t speak. She didn’t have to.

Instead, Hana turned her head just slightly, giving you a look that lingered longer than usual. She wasn’t smiling outright, but her eyes carried all the warmth and thanks she didn’t know how to say out loud.